To Thrive Despite the Cold
by Assimbya
Summary: Based on Elizabeth E. Wein's Winter Prince. Lleu seeks to understand his confused feelings about Medraut and to build a new relationship in the wake of their days alone together.


Before, Lleu had never been troubled by nightmares. He had known uneasy sleep throughout all his long years of illness, but, upon waking, whatever he had felt or thought during his rest always slipped from him, leaving nothing but the vague sense of fog and pain which he so despised. There was a helplessness to sleep which rankled at Lleu and terrified him; he thought often that he would prefer nightmares, if only because at least then his mind would be _doing _something during some of the interminable hours of rest to which his lifelong frailty had proscribed him.

In the wake of his journey with Medraut, Lleu at last had his wish. Now his sleep was filled up with ice and cold, visions flickering at the edges of his eyes, and the continuous sense of terror and alertness, like a continuous high note just beyond his range of hearing. And then, over and over, the sickening press of the knife blade in Medraut's palm, blood smearing Lleu's face, the feel of his brother's lips against his own -

Lleu woke more tired than before, and found himself pitying Medraut for his own bad dreams. It was a peculiar feeling, pity, like a thin sweetness between his teeth. He could imagine Medraut's rage and humiliation if he knew of it, so Lleu kept the feeling concealed, reflecting on only in the privacy of his own mind.

Lleu found himself spending more and more time thinking about Medraut, these days.

Medraut was not easily accepted back into life at Camlan, not after he had stumbled back towards the fortress with Lleu's weak body in his arms. In the days following, while Lleu slowly recovered (tended, of course, not by Medraut himself but by Aquila's considerable less able hands), Medraut was kept in his rooms under guard, much as Morgause had been at midwinter. The air was tense with the expectation of what Artos would do to his eldest son, who had abducted and threatened the life of his heir only to later return him, harmed by sleeplessness and fear rather than torture or violence. But Medraut kept silent, and Artos did not act. They were both waiting for Lleu to be well enough to speak his own wishes.

When that day finally came, Artos called both of them to his chamber and excluded everyone else, even Ginevra and Goewin. Lleu sat, for he was still weak, and watched Medraut standing before Artos, his head with its cloud of fair hair bowed before the king.

They could all hear Artos' strained exhale as he watched Medraut in his humble remorse. "I ask both of you," he began slowly, "to tell me what happened. Or else half the land will wonder why I don't have you executed for treachery and attempted murder."

Medraut's response was quick and his voice strong. "I will give you no excuse, my lord; my actions have gone beyond that. I will accept whatever punishment you think to be appropriate."

"You are my son," Artos said, "you are both my sons. I don't relish the prospect of punishing either of you, especially not for something which seems to have given both of you such cause for pain and learning already. But, Medraut, I cannot always be watching you lest you take it into your hand to wreak harm under Morgause's command again. You must give me a reason why I should trust you."

Lleu watched Medraut lift his head, saw the coolness of his expression, as if these were words he had practiced saying to himself in preparation for this moment. "I regret that I can give you no such assurance. Morgause's hold upon me is too great, and it takes forms which would bring me only shame to speak of before you. I feel that, after what occurred between us, I would not harm Lleu under any compulsion. He is my brother and my prince and I will serve him with my life. But I will not pretend that I have any proof of this to offer you."

Artos spoke mildly but carefully. "Then set aside your pride and tell me of the hold Morgause has on you, so that I may counteract it with whatever means I can. It cannot only be that she offers you kingship, when her own power is so uncertain and you know I will make you steward and regent for my son." A pause. "What has she done to you, Medraut? You have refused to tell me in the past, but the time for shame is over. I must protect my children."

Medraut did not answer immediately, but touched his hand, with its newly scabbed cut and familiarly twisted fingers. Lleu knew, with a painful certainty, that this was a question Medraut would never answer, at least not to Artos.

And so he stood, ignoring the rush of dizziness which came with this motion. "There is no need, father. I will vouch for him."

Medraut turned sharply to look at him. Artos only said, "On what grounds will you do that?"

"As his prince and his liege, I promise that Medraut will not jeopardize the interests of this realm, and swear that I myself will be held accountable for any treachery he should commit." Lleu could hear the wavering thinness of his own voice, and wondered if this was how Medraut had always seen him, as a little boy pretending to be the heir of the high king. He tried to let himself relax. "I trust Medraut. In the mountains he made the choice not to kill me when he had me weak and under his power. But that is private between us. There is no need for the rest of the kingdom to know what passed there." He swallowed. "If there are any in Camlan dissatisfied with this, then let me pardon him, publically, before the court. That should end their whispers."

Medraut laughed, and Artos looked at him slantwise, as if suspicious of this unusual loss of control.

"I accept this," Artos said finally, "and remind you to take it as a lesson in what it means to be high king, to regard seriously the responsibility which comes with mercy. I do respect the privacy of whatever it was you shared in those mountains. But, Medraut, this will not be the last time we speak about such things. I must know for greater clarity what threat Morgause poses to my family and my kingdom. But, for now, let's hope that Lleu's public pardon may be enough to satisfy the people and frustrate Morgause's ambitions."

Medraut nodded, "Thank you, my lord." A breath, and then he turned to Lleu, bowed slowly. "And thank you too, my prince."

The ceremony of the pardon was held only a few days later. There were few in attendance, only the family, Caius, some of the comrades, a few of those from Camlan who had worked closely with Medraut and were concerned for his fate. Standing with the golden circlet on his brow, Lleu could not help but wonder who of those before him would have followed Medraut, if he had indeed tried to lead a rebellion against him. Medraut might think himself strange, alone, unliked in his bastardy, but he was known as a hard worker, a caring foreman, a reliable and skilled leader. There were many who were devoted to him.

He was fortunate, Lleu thought, not for the first time, to have such a man at his side rather than as his enemy.

As Medraut knelt to receive his pardon, and Lleu placed his hands upon his brother's shoulders, he found himself on the edge of weeping, though he could not have said why.

He came upon Medraut alone, making arrows, careful still with his injured hand. "May I intrude on you?" he asked, hearing his voice awkward and wavering as it rang against the stones of the courtyard.

Medraut looked up, and smiled. "You never used to ask."

"I'm not a child anymore," Lleu replied, and realized how petulant he sounded and tried to soften his words, "I think I am only just beginning to learn how to speak to you."

"Come," Medraut answered, "sit down." He offered him an arrow. "You're welcome to stab me with it again, if you like."

Lleu made a face. "Please, don't remind me."

Medraut's voice was deliberately mild. "I did deserve it."

Lleu looked at Medraut's hands, nimble with the small knife he used to wittle out the arrows. "We've barely talked since. Have you been avoiding me?"

"You were ill. It was generally agreed that I not be the one to tend you in that state, not with the stink of Morgause's poisons still on me."

Lleu found himself frustrated. "I've been out of bed for nearly three weeks now. I never see you when I go to practice my swordsmanship, and you sit at the other end of the table at meals. I think you're avoiding me." He paused. "I remember what happened, you know. All of it."

"So do I." Medraut laid down his tools. "And what have you to say to me about it?"

"I know have done you harm. Some of that is by my very birth, and thus beyond my control. But some of it is not. I have done cruelties to you, Medraut, petty cruelties but cruelties nonetheless. I have wielded my birth and my kingship as weapons against you, and I should have known that to be inexcusable. I am sorry for it, brother. I truly am. And I wanted to tell you that here, and not let it be a thing only of the chaos and madness of that journey."

Medraut was not looking at him, not meeting his gaze. "I was a grown man, and you were still a child. I should not have let those cruelties hurt me as I did, and I should never have used any justification to imprison you for Morgause's gain. You heard and saw and felt things in those days that you never should have been made to see. That kind of violence and perversion is of Morgause's world - while I may belong to it, you do not. You gave me your pardon, but you still do not owe me any apologies."

A bird cried in the distance, high and shrill. Lleu spoke quietly. "Morgause's actions are not your responsibility. Your birth doesn't leave any taint on you, Medraut."

It almost sounded as though Medraut wasn't listening to him. "Desire is a strange thing. Sometimes it creeps in without you knowing, and latches its claws onto you, so that you only notice that it's there when you begin to feel its sting. Sometimes it can be nurtured into you, inoculated like an infection in a wound, making everything burn. You know nothing about this, my prince." He looked straight at Lleu, for the first time in their conversation. "My mother has left more taint on me than that of my birth. Have you never talked to Goewin about the suspicions she's drawn from my nightmares?"

Lleu would not answer this; he did not want to know. But it came together nonetheless, like lightning; Medraut's scarred shoulder, Agravain's strange horror at learning of his parentage. Agravain later, sniggering; _I know how she'll use him once he is under her sway. _He tried to push aside the knowledge. "You kissed me. Your hand bled and you rubbed it in my face and you kissed me. What kind of desire was that?"

Medraut froze. "That was not desire at all. That was petty revenge."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth. And a comrade must always speak truth to his liege."

The arrows clattered on the pavement. "Would you _like _me to desire you? Would it be another ornament to your vanity? You are my half-brother, and I am not Morgause, nor are you Artos. I won't indulge your fantasies."

"No, you're not Morgause. You're Medraut - strong, capable, brave, devoted, trustworthy. You can have no idea how much I envied you our father's respect. You can have no idea how much I have admired you. I have thought about you kissing me for all this past month."

Medraut's voice was trembling. "Don't think about it, then. Put it from your mind. _You_ _don't need this._"

Lleu attempted, perhaps futilely, to keep his tone light. "As your prince, I think I will decide what I ought and ought not to think about."

Medraut looked at him steadily. "So, prince, what then would you have me do?"

"I would have you let me kiss you, so that at least our obligations might be even. We can work out later to what degree we are or are not following in the foosteps of our forebears."

A thin, shaky smile broke the severity of Medraut's coutenance. "I believe I can manage that."

Carefully, Lleu put his pity aside despite its sweet power, and resolved instead to give Medraut something that would not be a cause for nightmares.


End file.
